


Mark 10:16

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Children, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In the way that every fic with them is slow burn, It's about the 6000 years, Light Angst, M/M, Protective Crowley, Slow Burn, Some historical cameos, The Flood - Freeform, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 05:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20003137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: You can't kill kids.It's part of the Plan. It's part of the Plan. It's part of the Plan.You can't kill kids.Five times that Aziraphale watched Crowley protect some children, and one time it didn't work out.





	Mark 10:16

_2020_

It’s a Friday lunchtime, and the sun is shining. And it’s time, as it has been on many such Friday lunchtimes, for a little group of noisy teenagers to go jostling past the shop on their way to the Tube. 

They are, as usual, off to the climate change strikes. Such activism in the young Aziraphale hasn’t seen for some time, and he sometimes watches them go past, clutching their ever more inventive signs. They are really very clever. 

And they’re so necessary, these children. The only ones seeing straight, or so it seems to him. Armageddon might have been diverted, but that doesn’t mean the humans don’t need to care for this planet all the same. Adam and his little friends have been going to the ones in Oxford, or so the notes from Anathema say. 

Aziraphale opens the door as usual, and as they pass him by, Crowley slips out after them. As usual. 

“Have a wonderful afternoon, my darling,” Aziraphale catches his hand and squeezes it tightly. 

“We will,” Crowley grins, slipping his sunglasses on and loping off down the street, a safe distance from the group. Before he turns the corner, he turns and blows Aziraphale a kiss. 

Aziraphale blushes and closes the door. Crowley will be gone for the entire afternoon, threading his way through the crowds that have been growing every week, keeping an eye on proceedings. He’s not watching the Soho children as such. 

“Just hanging about,” he’d said the first time, when Aziraphale asked him why. “A bit of rebellion, my bread and butter that. ‘Specially from kids. Start ‘em young.”

He’d be much more convincing if he was still in Hell’s employ and _supposed_ to be ‘hanging about’ such things. But Aziraphale has never pointed that out, because he knows Crowley knows that he knows the truth – it’s all very complicated. But what isn’t complicated is that Crowley likes children – he always has – and he’s going to pretend to his heart’s content that he’s busy corrupting them if it means he can keep them safe. 

And it has been safe, and remarkably peaceful, especially in London. Crowley glows when he comes home on Friday afternoons. And Aziraphale kisses him soundly, because it is quite possibly one of the loveliest things that he’s ever seen. 

_2012_

Aziraphale finds that he rather likes to garden. It is – what’s the human word? Therapeutic. He finds the gardening therapeutic. No wonder Crowley so likes having plants around him, if it is always like this. It takes Aziraphale all the way back to – well – another garden. Another garden that was probably the last place he can truly say he didn’t feel as though he was being watched. At least, he’d say that if he was so inclined to speak such thoughts out loud. One thing he doesn’t do these days is say much about his feelings. Too messy. And he doesn’t ask either, about feelings other people might be having. Especially demon shaped people. He doesn’t, for example, ask Crowley why it is that he should enjoy growing plants, when his presence in the first garden had hardly been a welcome one. That is absolutely out of bounds, so Aziraphale puts the thought into a box and gently hides it behind another pile of boxes in the storage room of his mind. 

Besides, Brother Francis doesn’t have a single inquisitive or self-reflective bone in his body, and Aziraphale has been Brother Francis for some time now. One of his longer term disguises, for sure. And Crowley – Crowley hasn’t been around much at all. Nanny Ashtoreth is here, and she isn’t going anywhere. Nanny doesn’t have time for plants. She is busy with the boy. 

The boy who is celebrating his fourth birthday, as it happens. 

There is a herd of very small, very sticky children running around the gardens, following a small child-friendly treasure map to find some small-child friendly treasure of the sweet variety. Aziraphale is a little bit vague on the details, but he’s watching, ready to dispense some Brother Francis wisdom on the value of sharing and the good grace necessary to be a gracious loser, should the need arise. He spies Nanny standing by the open doors of the summer house, arms crossed across her chest, as she watches her charges carefully. Typically, Aziraphale is finding, Mr and Mrs Dowling are nowhere to be seen. 

He raises a hand to block the sun and waves the other one when Nanny glances in his direction. She waves back and he grins, glad she can’t see his face flushing. He’s always a bit flustered when she pays him attention. 

Then there is a shriek, followed quickly by a scream, and several of the little creatures appear from amongst the trees.

“Nanny!” A small girl shouts. “Nanny!”

It isn’t entirely necessary, for Nanny began to run before the scream had even cut itself off. Aziraphale knows this, because he is running too, watching the back of her as she stops suddenly and kicks off her heels, then begins to run even faster. He’s never going to keep up, but he’ll try. Because behind the trees is a pond. Not an enormous one, but large enough it could cause a problem to small people. 

By the time he has dashed through the trees, it’s already over. Well, mostly over, because Nanny is in the pond, clutching a sobbing Warlock to her chest. The little boy has his arms around her neck, and pond weed in his hair, and he is coughing as much as he is crying. 

Aziraphale pushes his way carefully through the crowd and goes to the edge of the water, holding out his arms so Nanny can pass him the child. From this angle, he can see over the top of her sunglasses, and her eyes are glowing. Rage. He can feel it, and he thinks the rage is there because she’s just _saved_ the Antichrist. Without thinking, and perhaps it wasn’t at all the right thing to do. But Aziraphale still takes the boy carefully, and when small arms come up around his neck, he isn’t entirely sure that he could have watched him drown either. Not these days. 

Nanny pulls herself out of the water, and turns slowly to the crowd of children. 

“What. Happened?”

“Theo pushed him!” The same small girl as before pipes up. “Into the water. Theo pushed Warlock.”

The children part like a very famous parting sea, and the boy named Theo trembles under Nanny’s gaze. 

_Oh._ Aziraphale shakes himself. This is the rage. Not that she saved the boy. The rage is that someone dared to push him. And it’s _water_. How could he have forgotten?

As Nanny descends upon Theo, Aziraphale steps in front of her. She might as well be smoking at the edges, the red hot anger coming off her, and this is a little boy and he’s no older than Warlock, for _Her sake._

“Perhaps you had better tend the boy, my dear,” he says under his breath, pressing Warlock back into her arms, insistent, so she has no way to do anything except take him. “He needs you.”

Nanny hisses under breath, but Warlock wants her, and she cannot deny him. As his little face presses into her neck, some of the coiled tension in her shoulders loosens up and Aziraphale gives her a nod. 

“Come along, children,” she says, cradling the boy close to her and striding away. “It’s time for tea.”

They follow her like ducklings and Theo, believing he’s somehow got out of this one, goes to join the end of the line. 

“Ah ah, my boy,” Aziraphale puts a hand gently on his shoulder. “I think you and I should have a word or two, don’t you?”

_1944_

Aziraphale hasn’t seen much of Crowley since the church. He’s flitted in and out, of course, but they both have their work cut out with everything going on and they are just as likely to run into each other in France or China at the moment as they are in London. Which is, in one way, a Very Good Thing. Aziraphale is not at all sure he could manage seeing Crowley for very long at the moment. Definitely not enough to share lunch or even a cup of tea, without there being a chance that he might blurt out something very stupid and very dangerous. And it is, conversely, a Very Bad Thing, because all he wants to do is see Crowley, so his newly open heart can do that strange little skipping thing it has started doing whenever he is anywhere near the demon.

So all in all, he isn’t sure what he wants. But he knows what needs to be done. The humans have got themselves into a quite a muddle, even more so than the last time, it seems, and although he is forbidden once more from ‘helping out’, there’s nothing to stop him from going amongst them and offering what comfort he can. 

As he does this, wandering the fields of Europe, or beach hopping in the Pacific, he wonders what Crowley is doing. War has never really been his scene, but Hell is much more open to getting involved in human conflicts just for the fun of it, and so there is every chance Crowley is inserting himself into the upper echelons of leadership on the Wrong Side. But to be fair, whenever Aziraphale has run into him these past few years, he’s been on the ground, so to speak, encouraging some looting and a bit of rioting, but not apparently doing much else. Whatever it is he’s doing, he hasn’t asked Aziraphale to trade off. 

But there have been some horrors in this war. Aziraphale tries very hard not to think about the last one, and the things he saw the humans do to one another there, but even they pale in comparison to some of the things this time around. There are rumours of – well, horrifying rumours – and he knows that one day he must investigate what is happening deep in the forests of Europe, but he is not sure he can manage it. Not yet. 

And one day, as he runs into Crowley in the Philippines and watches him save a busload of children from a Japanese patrol that is wandering just a little too close, Aziraphale knows that Crowley probably hasn’t heard the same rumours as him. Because if he had, he would not be here. 

_1483_

England has changed a lot since dear Arthur’s day, not all of it for the better. Aziraphale reflects on this as he stands patiently in the court of the newly crowned Richard the Third. A courtier is being reprimanded for some slight against the crown, and Aziraphale tries not to sigh out loud. 

It isn’t all Richard’s fault, that the place is in a bit of a state. Things haven’t been right since the Crusades, one of Heaven’s least successful interventions into humanity’s business. Quite what they were trying to achieve with that, Aziraphale still doesn’t know. As far as he is concerned, it was a big, unnecessary mess. Hell didn’t even need to get involved in that one; Heaven did it all themselves, setting human against human in the name of God and proving that humanity loved Her enough to die for her. Yes, very well done. 

So Richard isn’t to blame per se for the mess, but he also hasn’t helped much. Aziraphale has been watching his ancestors for a while and now him, trying to nudge them in the right direction. It hasn’t always been successful.

“Leave us,” Richard snaps, waving his hand. “Lord Fell, a word.”

Aziraphale breezes serenely towards the throne as the room empties around them. It is best, he finds, to be serene around this king in particular. 

“Your grace. I am at your service.”

Richard looks tired, and he reflexively drums his fingers on the arm of his seat. 

“Has the job been done, Lord Fell?”

“Oh yes, your grace,” Aziraphale says carefully, his nervous hands hidden behind his back. “It has been done.”

“Good, good. And no person-”

“There were none to witness, your grace. I made certain of it.”

Richard nods and slides a ring from his finger, holds it out. Aziraphale takes it carefully and puts it on his own. The gold is soft and too small for him. He miracles it larger, and smiles. 

“If that is all, your grace, it has been a long day.”

“Yes, of course.” Richard gives him a final look, then waves his hand in dismissal.

Aziraphale hurries away, miracles himself up to his quarters to save the walk. Time is of the essence. 

He knocks four times on the door and hears the bolt slide back. He slips inside. 

Sat on his bed, clasping their hands together, are the two princes that he just told Richard he had murdered. And standing over them, dressed in fine black clothes, is Crowley.

“Did he believe you?” Crowley grins. 

“Yes. Now you must – ”

“Get them out, I know. Have to wait for dark.”

“Ah. Yes. Well then, I had better bolt the door. For now.”

The oldest of the boys, Edward, has keen eyes, and Aziraphale can feel them on his back as he makes the door secure. 

“Lord Fell?” asks the inevitable small voice. “Where are we going?”

“Lord Crowley is taking you far away, on your uncle’s request. There are conspirators here who would have you both killed.”

The boys blanche, and Crowley rolls his eyes at Aziraphale, before he sits down next to them.

“Nothing will happen to you now. You are safe. But you must promise to behave, and tell no one your real names. Can you do that?”

Edward nods, and squeezes little Richard’s hand.

“We can do that.”

It is a long wait for nightfall, but they have decided miracles will draw too much attention from up top and down below. While they wait, Crowley encourages the children to lay down and sleep. He has a way with them that Aziraphale cannot explain, and they drift off almost at his command. 

“This is more like it, angel. A bit of political intrigue to shake up a dull century or two.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale stands at his window, watching the guards in the courtyard below. “Just glad that we could be of assistance to one another.”

The Arrangement is fairly new, but so far proving fruitful. When Aziraphale received orders to make sure King Richard did not kill his nephews, and Crowley the opposite, they’d got together in a tavern and sorted it all out. It gave Aziraphale a little thrill, a shiver in his spine, to be so very clever about it all. 

_You can’t kill kids._

An echo of long ago, and something he suspects neither he or Crowley will ever forget. 

“If I tell Heaven I saved ‘em,” he’d slurred. “Put ‘em somewhere safe and saved Richard’s soul the damage, you can tell Hell that you – did the deed, and they’ll all be happy.”

Crowley, equally sloshed, had slammed his tankard down in agreement. 

“And I can – I’ll make ‘em forget. The kids. Nuffin special. But they won’t be – a pain anymore. Long happy lives. Maybe. You thwarted me and I – people’ll think he did it anyway. Everyone’s happy.”

And then he had quietly slid underneath the table, singing a song about dolphins. 

All in all, the new Arrangement is working wonderfully.

When night comes at last, Crowley disappears with the two little boys hidden under his cloak. He tips his hat to Aziraphale and leaves for what will turn out to be around seventeen years. And Aziraphale feels another little tingle that he resolutely decides has nothing to do with helping Crowley spare the lives of little ones he had been due to dispatch. It is simply the thrill of a job well done. 

_79AD_

They have never really spoken about the Flood again. It is as though it never really happened, and that’s probably for the best. 

But he can’t help being reminded of it now, just a little bit, as he watches Crawly – Crowley, his name is Crowley now – collecting up street children. In a few days, this grumbling volcano will explode. Aziraphale knows it, which means that Crowley knows it too, but it’s nothing to do with either of them. Sometimes on this strange little planet, things explode. It is how it goes. Hardly worth the bother of reporting it. Aziraphale might tell them, if they ask what the strange noise was, but he isn’t going to make a song and dance about it. 

And if Crawly – Crowley – is using his time to gather up orphans and urchins, and pay men with carts to take the children away from the city that will soon be ashy ruins, well that is Crowley’s business. Nothing inherently evil about it, not much to thwart. If any of these children were likely to be growing up causing trouble, Heaven would have got him involved, and then it would be a different story. Of course.

So, Aziraphale only watches, the familiar tingle at his back that he’s come to look for whenever Crawly – Crowley – is nearby, and he gets well away before anything too explosive happens.

_4004 BC_

Aziraphale will flee, as soon as the waters start rising. He’s been ordered to, after all. To retreat from the Earth for the time being until the waters have gone and he can resume his work. He will do that, and it will be nice to spend some time with other angels again, to tell them of the things he has seen on Earth and maybe answer their questions. If they have any. Gabriel and Michael never do, but maybe some of the others will be interested. 

So he will do that, but first he wants to watch. It feels as though someone should be watching. 

Noah has been building this ark for a while now, and when no one told Aziraphale that he wasn’t allowed to help, he suggested a clever way of waterproofing the wood that should give them a few more months of safe passage. Noah was very grateful - there isn’t much call for boat building in the middle of the desert, and he was working mostly in the dark. The ark is ready now - the rains have begun - and Aziraphale is on board. They won’t notice him if he doesn’t want them to. Noah is like a man possessed, moving with divine purpose, and his family are along for the ride. Of all the humans, of course, they are the only ones who know what is coming. 

At nightfall on the first day, Aziraphale stands on deck in the rain and watches as some of the closest villagers huddle in the doorways of their houses, fetching brushes and pushing the water away. Or trying to. Aziraphale finds that he cannot stay there for long, and he turns away.

By the next morning, the ark is afloat. 

Noah and the sons are gathered at the railing, knuckles white, listening to the wailing. Screaming. And the crying. God, the crying. Something inside Aziraphale’s chest feels tight, like there is a hand squeezing at him and it will never stop squeezing, and he will discorporate before it stops. But this is - it’s part of the Plan. 

The hand hasn’t stopped squeezing since he saw Crawly a few days ago.

_Not the kids. You can’t kill kids._

It’s part of the Plan. It’s part of the Plan. It’s part of the Plan.

Ham clamps his hands over his ears and stumbles below deck, and slowly his father and his brothers follow him. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he’d say that Noah looks him right in the eye as he slowly pulls the hatch closed.

_Not the kids. You can’t kill kids._

It’s part of the Plan. It’s part of the Plan. It’s part of the Plan.

Aziraphale can leave now. Heaven is waiting for him to report in and sit tight, take a holiday, as Gabriel put it. 

But the screaming. 

_You can’t kill kids._

His head is so full, he doesn’t pay much attention to where he is miracling himself. 

He appears on a mountainside, the rain so thick that he thinks for a bizarre moment he has gone blind. Then he sees, far away in the distance, the ark. Ah, so he hasn’t come far. 

But the crying has followed him. How is there crying, still?

“Shhhh now, it’s alright. It’s alright.” 

He knows that voice. 

Crawly.

Of course. He’s still here too. 

_You can’t kill kids._

“Crawly, what - oh.”

Crawly is cross legged on the ground, his arms holding a very small baby, two slightly larger children at his side. And - good Lord - his wings are out, sheltering them from the rain.

The hand in Aziraphale’s chest squeezes again, and he sinks to his knees. If they’re sitting, he will sit too.

“Hello, Aziraphale.” 

“Crawly. What are you doing?” 

The demon, usually never at a loss for words, shrugs and jostles the whimpering baby in his arms. 

“Crawly –“ 

“Not here,” Crawly blurts. “Just. Wait.”

He hands the baby to one of the other children. They have faces pinched with cold, and tear streaks on their faces, hair plastered to their heads, but they watch Crawly as though - as though they trust him, as though he were the sun, and his chest gets tighter.

Crawly follows him to the edge of the ledge, and they stand side by side, looking out. Crawly hasn’t bothered to put his wings away. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks again. “What kind of demonic play is this? Save some of the children She wants - She - She wants to –” 

“Destroy. The word you are looking for is destroy.” 

“Yes well. Is that what you’re doing? So the evil She seeks to - destroy - is actually lying in wait? I should thwart you.”

“Well, that’s the plan,” Crawly says flatly. “Very evil, these kids. Evil potential like you would not believe. I knew it the minute I saw them, cowering in fear.”

His voice turns sharp and it must carry, for the baby starts to cry again. Crawly turns his head slightly as though to look, then turns it back. 

“Crawly –“ 

“Just don’t.”

Aziraphale’s hands bunch into fists at his sides, and he cannot loosen them. He doesn’t know what to do. Thwarting Crawly is all very well on a large scale, but this. Three small children who should not be alive but they are. And Crawly is...distressed is not yet a word in Aziraphale’s orbit, but it will become one, especially when it comes to Crawly. 

_You can’t kill kids._

The waters are beginning to climb steadily up the mountain sides. 

“It’s alright, angel,” Crawly sighs. “Don’t damage yourself. There’s nothing either of us can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“These floods are going to cover the world. There’s nowhere safe. Even these mountains will be under it eventually.”

“Oh...oh.”

“I just - there’s nowhere I can take them, to cultivate the evil. I can’t take them to Hell, they aren’t evil enough for that yet. And they won’t survive here.” 

“That’s why - is that why your wings are out?”

“Won’t make a difference if they see them or not,” Crawly says, lacing his fingers together and Not Looking at Aziraphale. “Just saw them and - I couldn’t – thought I’d have a good chance of saving them. For the evil potential, of course.”

Crawly’s jaw clamps shut, and Aziraphale is struck by the sudden need to reach out, to touch him. He tries to make his hand obey and it seems to be working, until Crawly spins away and goes back to the children. The baby is still sobbing, and he takes it in his arms, making soft noises that Aziraphale would not expect from a demon. 

“They will fall asleep tonight and they won’t wake up.” Crawly comes back to his side, murmuring under his breath. “But it will be peaceful and they will not be afraid. And then I’m going down to wait it out. You Heaven bound? “

“I - yes. I just wanted to see - well, you know.”

“Yeah. I know. Well, see you soon, I suppose.”

Aziraphale’s last glimpse of Crawly is as he settles back down and lets the children cling to him. And the hand in Aziraphale’s chest squeezes tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> For Kate, who likes little ones as much as Crowley


End file.
